


The House Always Wins

by neosaiyanangel



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort - Forced to hurt someone in order to protect them from something worse, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 11:53:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20741777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neosaiyanangel/pseuds/neosaiyanangel
Summary: Winston reflects on the choices he was forced to make after the encounter with the Adjudicator and the High Table.





	The House Always Wins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).

Winston watched his janitorial staff as they finished cleaning up the lobby. The Adjudicator has left, her warning still clear in his mind. It was both a warning for his safety and one for his own position. He'd failed to kill John, something that had been part of proving his loyalty to the High Council. She couldn't prove he hadn't tried; the Adjudicator had been right there when Winston had shot him.

It was fine. It would all be fine. After all, Johnathon had lived. And that was what mattered.

"Sir?"

Winston was stirred from his thoughts. Apparently, he'd been at it long enough that Charon was able to get right in front of him without him noticing.

"Yes?" The tone his second had made him pause in thought. "Was there blood on the chandeliers? Please tell me those were spared from the carnage."

"Do not worry; nothing is so out of the way that it would require too much effort to clean," Charon reassured him. There was a pregnant pause before his second said, "You well and truly amaze me sometimes, Sir. Your masterful playing of everyone involved was nothing short of perfection."

Winston indulgently chuckled. "When I saw what pieces I had to play with and what was against me, it only took the correct placement of them all to serve my purposes to the T."

Charon quirked his lips in thought before he said, "There is one thing that I do not understand."

"Oh? I'm surprised! Normally you're on top of these sorts of things."

"John Wick." Charon looked at Winston expectantly.

"Hm?" Winston quirked an eyebrow. "What about him?"

"He is still alive," his second said in an obvious tone.

Winston waved his hand as if warding off a fly. "I took care of him as best I could. It certainly isn't my fault that he survived like he always does. The best, most stubborn assassin I've ever seen!"

"Oh yes. You 'taking care' of him." Charon nodded. "You certainly shot him enough times. Riddled him with bullets…"

Winston made an agreeing nod.

"...right into his bullet-proof suit."

His heart stopped. He was completely frozen. His mind scrambled to find a way to explain himself. Because if Charon had figured it out…!

Charon gave his reserved smirk. "Do not worry, Sir. I doubt anyone besides us knows you're a pretty good shot when it is necessary. Anyone will assume it was your poor marksmanship which did your murder attempt in, if anyone else even remembered about the suit."

Winston again nodded, this time more rapidly. "Yes...that is very true."

His second leaned in and murmured, "I can tell this is another one of your ingenious plots. The pattern, however, is out of my depth. What benefit there is to Mr. Wick being alive and believing you tried to kill him, I cannot see."

"Time will show the method to my madness," Winston assured him, his poker face covering the excessive panic welling inside him.

"I am sure of it," Charon agreed, his smirk shifting on his face.

Immediately trying to redirect his second, Winston exclaimed, "That reminds me! The lounge." He waved towards the ceiling. "The outdoor lounge will need tended to. I'm sure our guests wouldn't appreciate the blood and casings splattered and scattered about. Would you please take care of that for me? I need to go tend to some reconsecration paperwork before we open back up."

"Of course, Sir." With a nod, his second turned and left, clearly making his way for the general public elevators.

Winston stood for a few seconds, feeling the light beading of sweat along his brow. His heart, while not erratic, was still beating faster than normal. Trying to assume some look of normalcy, he cleared his throat while adjusted his jacket before he, too, went to an elevator. To his relief, the employee elevator was bereft of anyone even close to it. Casually he entered and carefully pressed the button for his actual private office, the nice little bunker in the basement. The office with the glass walls was, as it should be, a distraction. He had to make a show for everyone, including the cameras. There were almost no cameras on-site as an amenity to their guests, but for this employees-only area there was the exception.

And Winston wanted no evidence of any type of reaction on his part on record. It simply wouldn't _do_.

The elevator stopped at his floor and gently opened its doors. Winston was rather pleased with how it had worked during the High Table raid. There was barely any noise when the whole mess had happened. Precisely how it should be.

He exited and went over to his hidden keypad against the wall to the right, just past the vaulted entry to the office. His fingers flew across the pad, activating a variety of playful options: setting up a Faraday cage around the office, blocking the elevator from leaving this floor, charging up the rather comical yet effective electrified floor between the entrance and his office. The vault door swung closed as well, but it did little more than that, considering it was more a showpiece to accentuate the look of this floor.

Winston gave everything a solid minute to fully lock into place before he did anything else. Once he was assured it was all in place, he made his way to his desk. He didn't bother sitting down in the chair as he opened the second drawer from the bottom of the right side of the desk. The little bits and pieces of generic desk supplies were shoved back as he angled his wrist to let his thumb press against the top of the drawer in a specific spot. A soft _pop_ let Winston know that he had successfully opened the secret drawer.

He walked around the desk to the front, where the entire side had tilted ever-so-slightly. With well-practiced ease, Winston flipped the last safety switch that would ignite the entire stash if it was forgotten before he fully opened the secret drawer. His _personal_ secret drawer. The one that held all his deepest, somewhat embarrassing secrets.

Winston barely had to look before he saw what he wanted. Carefully, he pulled out the Manila envelope, the date recorded on it being one he had burned into his heart. Folder in hand, he went to the couch and set it down on a cushion before he went and poured himself a drink. He purposely took his time. It wasn't often he reminisced like this, after all.

Once he had his favored cognac in hand, he settled down onto the couch, inches away from the folder. A few sips passed his lips before he even considered the folder again. He set the drink down on the table before hesitantly, almost reverently, picking the folder up and flipping it open on top of the table. The folder opened easily, being perused so little that it still had a crisp edge to it as the contents spilled out onto the tabletop.

Photographs. Pictures of various shapes and sizes splashed against the table, creating a mish-mash mess against the solid surface. All of them were of the same person: John Wick.

Winston was rather proud of his collection. John was the best out there as far as hired killers went. Getting even _one_ photograph was a chore at times, especially when the subject hated getting their picture taken. Some, like the showy Miss Perkins had been, liked to be photographed for reasons beyond Winston. A true professional like John, however, was careful about photographs. Very careful.

Most of the pictures in Winston's collection were candid street photos. John likely knew they were being done. It would have been ridiculous if he _hadn't _noticed them. As a result, those pictures were cold. Emotionless little things that displayed a man and nothing else. In the pile, in their own little cluster, were pictures completely opposite those. Winston picked out these favored pictures and laid them out in front of him.

Johnathon's wedding day. The day he and his Helen were wed. It had taken quite of bit of background work to get these without John knowing about it. It spoke to Winston's skill as a connected information broker. True, he could possibly have gotten these by simply bribing the photographer, but that would raise many questions if they were unable to keep quiet on it. Best to do it in a less conspicuous manner.

Winston picked out his favorite and held it in front of himself. It was a candid photo of John in his brilliant white tuxedo, standing in a small group of people and giving a genuine half-way smile as they milled about the reception area. These people in the picture had been Helen's friends and family. John had no one invited on his behalf. All of his connections were criminal. Not the type to share his happiest day with.

John, per his norm, looked absolutely dapper in the picture. Just like his work suits, the wedding tuxedo fit the hitman like a second skin. Unlike normal, John had this jacket buttoned up the whole way. The little carnation that poked out of his left breast pocket looked undersized to Winston. Weddings were about excess, after all, including with the decorations.

Winston spared a glance at another picture on the table. This one had John and Helen feeding each other cake, the veil and headwear having been discarded by the bride at this point in favor of comfort.

Helen. The woman that had managed to win John's heart. Winston couldn't pretend he wasn't jealous. John Wick was a prime specimen. The ideal hitman, a genuinely polite man with the focus of a god and perfect patience. Yet at the same time he was grateful to John's deceased wife. She had made John genuinely happy. That thought—John being happy—made warmth blossom in Winston's chest.

But only for a moment.

It was quickly quashed by the knowledge of what happened after that day. Her death, the dog, the marker, the High Table...a shame. A great shame. John didn't deserve any of what was happening to him.

Winston loved John. It was one of his deepest secrets. Everything that John was attracted him. He would do anything he could for John. Every play Winston had made benefitted the hitman in some way. Even his apparent betrayal. How else was John going to get out of there alive?

And now John probably hated him. No time to explain his move, no way to signal him. John could only take it at face value.

Winston set the photograph down and took a drink. He paused after a swallow, letting the liquid burn in his gut as a distraction. That thought weighed heavy on his mind. John, hating him after all their years of geniality. Mutually beneficial, never rude or short.

It hurt. A rare feeling to Winston.

Winston's play kept John alive and kept the Continental in his control, but the cost…

John would come for him. It was a certainty. John was never one to let grudges go. Hopefully he would make it a swift death. Winston doubted he would have any time to explain why he did what he did.

Winston played the best hand he'd had at the time. He won the battle. Lost the war. All he could hope for now is that John would be understanding in his retribution.


End file.
